


Sock

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 12:10:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4834823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bilbo’s stuck in bed, Thorin and Dwalin do their best to entertain him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sock

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “When Bilbo's laid up in bed with a broken ankle, Dwalin and Thorin see to it that their Hobbit is entertained” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/8973.html?thread=19117069#t19117069).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s not a pleasant place to be stuck in bed, but he’s at least fortunate to _have_ a bed. If he’d slipped on a patch of ice and broken his ankle almost anywhere else along this quest, he’d be stuck in the dirt, and they wouldn’t have the time to stop for him. For now, they’re staying in Laketown anyway, and Thorin and Dwalin can spend their time at the foot of the child’s bed that’s been leant to Bilbo’s stout frame. He’d hoped they’d come back with books or maps, but instead they have swords in their hands and all their armour on. At Bilbo’s puzzled looks, Thorin announces, “We’re not about to let our burglar die of boredom just before we need you. We can at least give you a show.”

Because he can tell that Thorin’s trying to be kind in his own tough, gruff way, Bilbo just mumbles, “Thank you.” He doesn’t mention that sparring is more a Dwarven art than a hobbit one. Dwalin lifts his sword up to parallel his body, and Thorin follows suit. 

Dwalin dives forward first, Thorin jerking out of the way, aiming a slice to Dwalin’s middle that Dwalin quickly blocks. Even with all Dwalin’s protective armour on, Bilbo still worries for him, breath catching. Then their blades are cutting the air just above Thorin’s shoulder, and it’s him that Bilbo fears for. He’s seen quite enough of his dwarves in danger on this journey, and these two in particular are really _his dwarves_ , and he wants them harmed least of all. Watching them dance about each other bearing fierce weapons is only slightly exhilarating and mostly bothersome, but it gets better the more they move. Bilbo’s a little bit more comfortable for each blow they block, proving that they know what they’re doing, and also the looks on their faces: Dwalin becomes determined, Thorin fiery, their _passion_ for this leaking out. It’s alluring to see them so intense, especially during such graceful movements and with sweat starting to bead on their brows.

By the time Thorin’s cheeks are lightly flushed from exertion, Dwalin being a fair but relentless match, Bilbo’s shifting uncomfortably in bed for a different reason. He has to be careful with his ankle, but any discomfort that flitters over his face is lost on the other two: they’re already occupied comforting him in the misguided way they think is best. Thorin blocks Dwalin’s sword and shoves him back so hard that Dwalin grunts, voice deep and lilting into a growl. It’s the way he sometimes does in the middle of the night, when he’s on top of Bilbo with his king beside him. Thorin braces himself, hair now disheveled, like it gets when Bilbo runs his hands greedily through it and splays it out across the earth beneath them. 

Dwalin looks ready to charge across the small, wooden room, but Bilbo quickly asks, “Those aren’t real swords, are they?”

Both warriors pause, but it’s Dwalin to answer, “Haven’t got good steel yet. They’re dulled practice swords, borrowed from the armoury.”

That gives Bilbo a surge of relief, and gives him the chance to guiltily suggest, “Do you really need all that armour, then?” Flushing at Thorin’s lifted brow, Bilbo hurriedly explains, “It’s just that you’ll have to put it all back on again when we leave, but shouldn’t you enjoy this break without the weight? It looks so uncomfortable, when here I am lying in bed...”

If Bilbo were on his feet, Thorin would probably argue. But in the wake of Bilbo’s injury, he’s become as doting as his hardened exterior allows. He pulls the metal gauntlet off one hand and nods for Dwalin to follow. Stiffly, they both tug out of their new gear, likely from the same armoury and a bit ill-fitting in places, not meant for the short, plump bodies of Dwarves.

They look much better in just their tunics and trousers. Their clothes are loose, but it’s easier than the armour to see the natural shape of their bodies, and when they lift their swords and begin again, Bilbo gets flashes of the bulging muscles along their arms. They go at one another with new vigor, breathing hard with writhing bodies and flushed skin. They’ve only been at it for a little while when Bilbo asks again, “This place is so small; you must be really working yourselves into a sweat. Couldn’t you move faster without your tunics?”

Thorin wrinkles his nose like he’s about to lecture Bilbo on how sparring works, but Bilbo straightens himself up and dons a no-nonsense face. It’s one he’s had to perfect over his time with so many ruckus dwarves, and it seems to let Thorin know that Bilbo isn’t in the mood to argue. Dwalin’s already put his sword down to wrestle off his tunic. It instantly draws Bilbo’s eyes to his broad chest, thick pecks and tanned skin. There’s only a thin sheen of sweat, but it glistens the most off the intricate black tattoos winding down the side of his stomach. Then Thorin follows suit, and Bilbo’s looking there, at the smooth, battle-hardened flesh of Thorin’s muscles and the smattering of thick, dark hair in the middle of his chest. Bilbo can feel his own cheeks heating. They’re so _gorgeous_ , the pair of them, and if they just stood still like that for a while, it’d be more than enough entertainment for Bilbo’s gentle soul. They pick up their swords anyway. 

And Bilbo coughs, awkward and guilty and much more into this than he should be. He mumbles, “Um... perhaps you’ve done enough with swords? Could you just practice hand to hand?”

Thorin looks at him like this is an absurd request, even though Bilbo’s sure he’s seen dwarves fight without weapons before. Dwalin moves to place his sword on a nearby chair, then freezes and snaps abruptly up. Marching back to the foot of the bed beside Thorin, he grumbles, “Wait a minute, lad. Are you really wanting to watch us fight?”

Bilbo’s blush only deepens, but Thorin looks, for a moment, confused, then seems to realize all at once and lets out a little, “Oh.” A grin creeps onto his handsome face, and he tosses his own practice sword carelessly aside, asking silkily, “Is that what our little hobbit wants?” He chuckles, and Bilbo fights the urge to bury his face in his hands to hide his embarrassment. 

“Should’ve just asked,” Dwalin grunts, like it’s that easy to come out and say such shameful things. He turns towards Thorin, Thorin already in place.

They meet in the middle, slamming suddenly together for a hard, messy kiss, just as fierce as their fighting was. They open their mouths wide, tongues slipping between their mouths, Dwalin’s thick fingers running back into Thorin’s hair and Thorin fisting a hand in Dwalin’s grey beard. They pull one another closer, jam their noses together, and kiss like they’ll never get the chance again. It’s a wonderful, too-erotic sight, and they don’t stop until Bilbo lets out a pitiful moan. 

Then they look at them, hands still on each other, bare chests pressed tight together. Thorin licks his lips thoughtfully and eyes Bilbo, musing, “I suppose it’s only your ankle—the rest of you is fine.”

“So if we’re careful...” Dwalin finishes, trailing off with a suggestive note in his gravelly voice. Thorin’s smirk becomes absolutely predatory. 

Bilbo squeaks, and then his warriors are on him like two feral cats, worked up from battle and rearing to please.


End file.
